Overthrow (A James Winchester Thriller Book 2) (James Winchester Series) by James Samuel (psychology books to read txt) 📗

James’ breath caught in his throat as a gunshot erupted from the opposite side of the huts. Silhouettes ran madly through the lit area like the dying tendrils of a fire. He stood his ground. Blake couldn’t see him. He fought back every natural instinct to jump in. That’s what made him different. That’s what made him good at his job.

A man ran in his direction. He searched for cover behind the huts. James fired a single shot. The man dropped. A bullet buried in his back. He never saw his killer.

James hauled himself out from his prone position and began his advance. He stepped over the dead man; a bandana of Khmer Rouge orange wrapped around his bicep. Beyond the huts, the world had come alive. Gunshots and Khmer shouts echoed across the fields. James inched around a hut in the opposite direction. His breaths came short and sharp. No more enemies had entered his line of sight. Prahn must know there were two foreigners, and his men must know too.

James found himself on the other side of the buildings. In the distance, he saw the two pinpricks of light from the car. A Khmer Rouge trampled through the fields towards him. Their eyes met, and his adversary seemed shocked to find himself confronting a foreigner. James gunned him down without a second thought.

The gunbattle raged in the fields beyond. He needed to find Blake. He had to save him. James abandoned caution and bounded downwind into the fields. He swept his gaze left and right like a periscope, shooting on the run at anything that resembled a human. Hopping over a trench, he dropped to the ground. A bullet whizzed past him.

James kept his face pressed into the dirt. He saw his assailant’s silhouette in the moonlight. James fired once. The man dove to the right. James fired blindly. The scream told the story. He let out a deep breath. The man in the moon stared, unmoving, without judgement.

The battle grew louder as James crept stealthily, head down, never pausing in his forward movement. Then he saw the Khmer Rouge converging on a single point. Blake had almost reached the road, a thick fence topped with barbed wire halted his retreat. Blake had run out of room.

“Hey, assholes!” James screamed at the night.

James dropped to the ground as his enemies turned away from Blake. The Khmer Rouge strafed where he’d been. He forced his body into the dirt, inhaling the freshly dug earth.

“Shit,” he muttered.

James crawled a few feet to the right. He heard their voices coming closer and closer. James popped up and fired towards the heavy breathing of the men. He kept firing until he heard the sickening click. His gun was empty.

He fumbled for the extra magazine in his pocket. A thick bamboo stick crashed into the front of his chin. James stumbled, dropping the magazine, fingers tight on his weapon.

The man brought the bamboo crashing down again. James just managed to move away to stop it from shattering his skull. It struck his shoulder with a blinding thud. He cried out; his left arm went numb.

More gunshots. More death rattles. James looked up and the bamboo-wielding Khmer came at him again. He dodged and struck out with his Glock. The Khmer groaned from a shattered nose.

The two men sized each other up. In the centre of it all, they had their own personal duel. James tried to shake some feeling into his left arm again. He gritted his teeth, preparing to strike. A bullet sliced through the air and James dove away. The Khmer fell back, his bamboo landing next to him.

The eruption of sound sent a ringing reverberation around his ears. In that brief calm, he blinked to find Blake standing above him. His clothes scuffed and covered in dirt; a small streak of blood leaked beneath his hairline.

“Only some of them had guns. The rest just had bats and other useless crap,” Blake informed him. “Bunch of hick trash.”

James stumbled back to his feet again and recovered his pistol. He reloaded it with a new magazine, his shoulder throbbing.

“I cleared them out,” said Blake. “Get back to the house. I didn’t see Sambath.”

James nodded and together they picked their way across the fields towards the fluorescent lights bobbing in the distance.

When they returned, they found nothing. Nobody. Prahn’s family remained motionless in their hut. They huddled close to Rith, who still had the gag in his mouth.

James and Blake entered the hut. The faces of the family fell away. The Khmer Rouge had failed. They were still captives.

Blake tore the gag from the boy’s mouth. “Where’s Uncle Prahn?” he growled.

“He come. He come. You see him?”

“He’s lying,” James intervened.

Blake gave Rith a little slap. “Call him.”

James untied Rith’s hands. The young Khmer flexed his arms and shoulders. His bindings had left cuts on his wrists. The dried blood left red splotches around two circular trenches.

Blake levelled his gun at Rith’s head. “Call him. Now.”

Rith, once again, retrieved the phone from his pocket and called. They heard the dial tone. It rang and rang until Rith’s eyes emitted pure fear as he looked into the cavernous barrel of Blake’s gun.

“He no answer. He no answer. I try but he no answer.”

James exchanged a look with Blake. Had Prahn sent his men to save his family without risking his own neck? He licked his dried lips. If they couldn’t flush Prahn out that way, how could they make him come out into the open?

He opened his mouth to speak when a spindly arm flew around his neck and gripped him in a chokehold.

“Uncle Prahn!”

Prahn wrenched James’ neck back, making him stand on his toes. James tried to breathe but nothing could